


A Night Out

by anthean



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ballet, Canon Era, M/M, Nerdiness, Terrariums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/pseuds/anthean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Combeferre dodge a landlady, discuss terrariums, go to the ballet, and, along the way, inadvertently seduce each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thanks to Seaberus for the handholding.

Combeferre is sitting at his desk, adding the final shading to a sketch of a juvenile house sparrow, when Jehan clatters up the stairs and bursts through the door in a whirl of mismatched fabrics and flyaway hair, sending at least two stacks of books toppling and probably leaving a dent in the wall behind Combeferre's door. Combeferre takes a moment to mourn his fallen books, then, "I wonder that you made it up the stairs at all," he says by way of greeting. "My landlady rules this building with draconian severity, and hardly likes letting her own tenants inside, let alone suspicious characters like yourself."  
  
Jehan looks at Combeferre for the first time, perhaps noticing Combeferre's loose collar and shirtsleeves, the waistcoat hanging from the back of his chair, the half-drunk glass of wine. He picks up a copy of Gerdy's _Traité des bandages et appareils de pansement_ and inspects it with vague interest despite the blush that blooms across his cheeks. "Madame Boutonnet? She is fearsome indeed," he says, "but, like Orpheus, I have charmed her into quiescence."  
  
Combeferre snorts. "Or, like Hermes, bored her into ineffectuality, but I suppose as long as you haven't also been throwing rocks at her she can't complain."  
  
Jehan drops the book; it thuds face-down and open onto the floor, bending the pages. "You insult me, _monsieur_ , I must have satisfaction, and therefore you must come to the ballet with me tonight. I confess, it was to that end I had called on you in the first place, but after such a frightful display I feel entirely comfortable insisting on your attendance. Come, surely you've heard, it's the premiere of _La Sylphide_ and Marie Taglioni will be dancing. I have your ticket here already. Up, up!" Jehan pulls at Combeferre's shoulders and bustles him out of his chair. "I will hear no protest. The curtain rises in twenty minutes and we will just be in time if we hurry."  
  
"Jehan, my friend, I am happy to accompany you, only please let me change my shirt, my cuffs are all over ink," Combeferre protests, just managing to blow out his candle before Jehan drags him across the room. "Or a coat, at least," he finishes when Jehan ignores him.  
  
Jehan tugs a coat free from the rack on the wall, tosses it over Combeferre's shoulders, and propels them out the door. Combeferre stumbles along, trying simultaneously to untangle himself from his coat and keep his balance on the narrow staircase. He rooms in the attic of a large old house, once inhabited by a single family and now hastily subdivided into four apartments, with awkward stairways shoved into corners and doors that open into closets of rooms. They trip down the stairs together, past the family of five who live crammed together on the first floor, the aging violin maker living alone in one of the ground floor apartments, the trio of sisters living in the other, and finally his landlady's tiny cell by the front door. Her door creaks open as they barrel past, but they're outside and down the street before she can waylay them, Combeferre running to catch up with Jehan.  
  
"Do you have your key?" Jehan asks.  
  
Combeferre feels in his trouser pockets. A few sparrow feathers, a small convex lens, two pieces of hard lemon candy, keys. "Yes," he says, "lucky for us, otherwise I doubt Madame Boutonnet would ever let me in again." He finally manages to sort out his coat and pulls it on, noting with a sigh that it's the threadbare garment he wears when out wading through the ponds on the outskirts of Paris, collecting water-beetles. At least he and Jehan will look somewhat a pair, Combeferre thinks ruefully, himself due to his shabbiness and the other due to his eccentricity. Where on earth Jehan found a raspberry waistcoat patterned with anatomically-unlikely mermaids, Combeferre does not wish to speculate.  
  
"Although it's very good of you to offer me your extra ticket, and without meaning any offense, I must admit some surprise," Combeferre says, buttoning what buttons are left on his coat. "I would think Bahorel or perhaps Courfeyrac more likely to accompany you."  
  
"I have been to the theater with Courfeyrac and wish never to repeat the experience. The evening begins well, and then he abandons you at curtain-fall to seduce the loveliest and most lissom dancer in the _corps de ballet_." Jehan rolls his eyes. "As for Bahorel, his mistress has requested his presence tonight, and as I've already asked him to look after my violets while I'm away next month I thought it unwise to place any strain on the bonds of our friendship. Oh—but I hope I do not offend you, by implying you a less-desirable companion? I do enjoy your company as its own pleasure." Jehan's voice trails off to almost nothing, and he hugs his forearms worriedly.  
  
"Not at all. I merely wondered, and am delighted to be your companion for the evening." Perhaps more delighted than he's letting on, but the night is early yet. "Are you not concerned for the well-being of your violets? Bahorel is many things, but not much of a gardener."  
  
Jehan waves a hand. "He's done it before, and in any case the winter has been hard on them, poor things, all bedraggled and sad. Bahorel could hardly do worse."  
  
"Perhaps. Still they are a hardy species. _Viola tricolor_ , correct?"  
  
"Yes," Jehan sighs. " _Heartsease_."  
  
"They will bloom again, then, this spring or summer. Which puts me in mind—have you heard of the work of Dr. Nathaniel Ward? He's developed an ingenious method of cultivating plants in enclosed containers, thus shielding them from any sudden chills or unhealthy miasmas of the climate. Perhaps your violets would benefit."  
  
"Enclosed? But surely the joy of nature is in the interaction rather than separation, of feeling oneself subsumed beneath the immensity of creation?"  
  
"If you can extract such immensity from a pot of violets, I congratulate you. But no, the method of enclosure itself is quite fascinating. I've been corresponding with Dr. Ward regarding his studies of silkworm moths, and he described to me his observation of a small blade of grass growing on a cocoon kept in a sealed container. The case ensures purity of air, as well as retains water, thus removing the necessity of tending to the plant."  
  
"If you _cannot_ extract such immensity from a pot of violets, I worry at your lack of imagination. But no matter; what you describe is incredible! Clearly I've been over-hasty to condemn. An ingenious technique, and one with such potential—imagine the uses, if not in large-scale agriculture, in kitchen gardens, or in cultivating medicinal plants. The immensity of the universe in the smallest scale…it is breathtaking."  
  
"I am happy to let you borrow his letters, if you like. The first several are largely concerned with entomology, but you needn't read those if they don't interest you. Dr. Ward gives quite a full description of his methods. _Wardian cases_ , I believe they are beginning to be called."  
  
"I would be thrilled, my friend, if you don't need them for your own reference," Jehan says.  
  
"It's not like you won't give them back," Combeferre says, then snickers at Jehan's sudden stricken expression. "Well, you'll give them back eventually. You are a terrible abuser of books." Jehan remains silent, perhaps deciding that any speech would be incriminating, and they hurry along in companionable quiet.  
  
The theater is brightly lit and shining when they arrive, casting golden rectangles of light onto the street, the last latecomers silhouetted  in the doors as they scurry inside. There's a brief commotion when, for a few moments, Jehan appears to have forgotten their tickets. He pats himself down rapidly, searching a truly astonishing number of hidden pockets and delivering a mumbled tirade on the injustice of inaccessibility to art, before extracting the tickets from under his hat with a too-loud shout of triumph. Heads turn; Jehan purses his lips and shrugs.  
  
They proceed into the theater, engulfed in the strange echoes of hundreds of gossipers billowing through the cavernous space and bouncing off the high ceilings, and as they're pushing their way past the more timely, already seated, theater-goers, Jehan turns to face Combeferre as best he can. "You must think me a little ridiculous," he says, almost too soft to hear over the susurrus of the stilling crowd.  
  
They reach their seats as the orchestra begins the overture, effectively silencing the long response building at the back of Combeferre's tongue before he can give it voice. Combeferre can't find passion ridiculous, whether misaimed (an image of Marius Pontmercy's nostrils, quivering as he preaches the glory of empire, appears unbidden) or not, nor would he make himself an instrument of censure. All this is lost in the swell of the music and he restricts himself to a whispered "Don't be absurd."  
  
"I'll be absurd if I want to be," Jehan says hotly, and is shushed by the gentleman behind them. The altercation is saved from escalation by the rising of the curtain, revealing a Scotsman, asleep, and a pale airy spirit dancing around him.  
  
The ballet would be hard to follow, Combeferre thinks, if he hadn't already some idea of the plot, gleaned from newspapers and advertisements. It takes him several scenes to straighten out who the principal characters are, and he's confused anew by the introduction of a witch, who seems to have something very important to say but whose mimes are unparseable. And although Mademoiselle Taglioni as the _sylphide_ is the star of the show, Combeferre finds himself drawn more to Effie, the hero's jilted mortal love, abandoned at the end of the first act. She collapses into her mother's arms and Combeferre catches a look of true pain, wrenched from her heart and hastily concealed, first by her theatrical sobs and then by the fall of the curtain.  
  
As the lights brighten and the theater fills with chatter, Combeferre turns to Jehan to share his observations, but finds Jehan still and self-contained, staring at the stage as though the sylph still whirled there. Combeferre leaves him to his thoughts and they sit together in silence as the theater bustles around them, then dims for the second act. The curtain rises on a moonlit forest, and as the first spirit wafts across the stage Combeferre feels Jehan's leg press against his own. They stay that way through the ballet's tragic finale, through the roar of applause, until the theater brightens once more.  
  
Jehan sinks into his seat with a sigh of bliss, eyes closed and face tilted to the heavens, heedless of their fellow theater-goers who now must clamber over his knees to reach the aisle. Several of them look quite annoyed, and Combeferre stands up and presses himself against his seat to let them pass. When Jehan shows no inclination to emerge from his reverie, Combeferre sits down again and taps his shoulder. "Are you all right? I believe we are getting in the way."  
  
"All right?" Jehan responds. His eyes flutter open, the long eyelashes wet with tears. "Combeferre, my dear friend, I am transported, I am overcome, I hardly know that I remain in a theater. To express such ethereality in the medium of earthly physicality, to convey through art what is occult and unknowable…it is a masterpiece."  
  
"I found the method of dancing _en pointe_ particularly engaging. When one considers the strength and discipline the dancer must cultivate to perform the technique, and then—oh, excuse me—" A group of finely-dressed patrons of the arts have begun to jostle their way past Jehan's sprawled legs, and Combeferre stands again to give them room. "—then to conceal her strength with steps expressing such fragility…it is remarkable. It also occurs to me that the very structure of the dancer's limbs might be altered by the strain the technique places upon them. I should very much like to examine Mademoiselle Taglioni's feet." The woman currently fighting not to trip over Jehan gives him a scandalized look; Combeferre doesn't bother apologizing, and she deliberately steps on his feet as she stomps by, sniffing disdainfully at his worn-out coat and missing hat. Jehan is laughing helplessly, high on art and absurdity. Fortunately, their row is now empty but for the two of them, and Combeferre sits down again, as Jehan doesn't seem interested in leaving just yet.  
  
"I am thinking about James," says Jehan slowly. He fiddles with his shirt collar, his face serious. "I envy him, I might say. What must it be, I wonder, to be drawn and repelled, simultaneously, to a creature who grows to envelop your whole life, just as you are the only star in her sky? To be so wholly devoted to one being? I wish myself capable of it, but I…doubt that I have such depth of soul within me."  
  
"You have breadth, rather," Combeferre says. "You are in love with the entire world, and love each component part more for the beauty it brings to the whole. I can't see any fault in your shade of devotion."  
  
"I suppose," Jehan says. "It's not the shade of devotion I object to. How could I, when rejecting love of the world would mean rejecting you—your philosophy, I mean. I am wholly selfish; I mourn the lack of capacity within myself."  
  
There is something warm and fond nestled below Combeferre's sternum. Were he Joly, he might diagnose himself with a putrid influenza, but he fears this feeling is of an entirely different sort. "I think the ability to apply ideals to reality must always be preferable, and that is an ability you possess, and James lacks," he finally says.  
  
"Perhaps you're right. Still, James loved Effie as well, at least to some degree."  
  
"And given how he treated her, perhaps you should not be so quick to take James for your model. To cast oneself fully towards the supernatural, fine, but not at such a cost to one's dependents. I must call it irresponsible, and say that Effie had a narrow escape."  
  
Jehan snorts and stands, finally. "You have showered me with compliments, and yet somehow I feel insulted. All right, I yield, I reject James and his devotion. My own must satisfy me. Shall we make our own escape?" Not waiting for an answer, he shoves past Combeferre's much-abused feet and sets off for the door of the theater; Combeferre collects his coat and hurries after him.  
  
Jehan pauses after they exit the theater. "And now?" he asks, "Are you off to wreak havoc among the _corps de ballet_?" He turns his face to the sky, but the stars are obscured by the low-hanging March clouds. Perhaps Jehan can see them anyway.  
  
Combeferre steps closer, sets just the tips of his fingers on Jehan's waist above the thick wool coat and mermaid waistcoat, leans in. "It is not any dancer I wish to seduce," he says, breath curling soft tendrils in the space between his mouth and Jehan's ear.  
  
Jehan steps away, but the look he shoots Combeferre is nothing like rejection. " _Wish to seduce_ , as though there were any uncertainty and the thing not long since done—ah." He casts his eyes to the ground, scuffing his feet there as though he hadn't intended the admission. "Shall we go, then? I believe you offered to lend me some letters." Jehan touches Combeferre's elbow, fingers warm through his threadbare coat and linen shirt despite the evening's chill.  
  
"I did indeed," Combeferre says, and Jehan grins as they set off down the street. The house is sleeping when they arrive, Madame Boutonnet having long since given up her vigil and turned to her bed. They unlock the door carefully and creep up the stairs, their creaking footsteps hardly disturbing the quiet of the house, and if a few soft sounds drift down—much later—from the attic, well, no one is awake to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _La Sylphide_ premiered on March 12, 1832, was the first true Romantic ballet, and, people, you don't understand how much I love Romantic ballet. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. The plots are bizarre and everyone dies and there's hopeless love and mistaken identities everywhere, and it's delightful. _La Sylphide_ , set in faraway Scotland, is the story of a farmer named James who falls in love with a sylph and proceeds to fuck everything up, alienate his fiancee, and get both the sylph and himself killed. Effie, his fiancee, marries James' best friend, who presumably has his life a little more together. DELIGHTFUL. I tried to be vague about the actual choreography because the original staging has been lost, and the ballet as it's performed today is different from how it was performed when it premiered. You can find clips on youtube; [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylVa_Rx2L3s) is a good place to start.
> 
> 2\. That thing about silkworm moths is 100% true, it's the most Combeferre thing ever and I didn't make it up at all, that is actually how terrariums were invented! And it dovetails nicely with my headcanon that Combeferre is in at least casual correspondence with every eminent scientist of his day, down to and including Stephen Maturin.
> 
> 3\. According to my rigorous research (google maps), if Combeferre lived near Courfeyrac at 16 rue de la Verrerie he'd just be in speedwalking distance of the Salle le Peletier, where _La Sylphide_ was first performed. If this isn't right…well, pretend it's right.
> 
> 4\. This entire fic is an excuse for that line about Marie Taglioni's feet.


End file.
